Chapter 5: The Devil’s Reward: Chapter 4

“Macy,” I say with the very last of my patience, “stop that or I’m putting you in time out. Got it?” I rarely use that threat, so it’s enough to stop the tantrum in its tracks and have her look at me with an angry, but slightly worried, expression. If there is one thing about my daughter, it’s that she’s five, going on fifteen, and she’s headstrong to the core. She’s the kind of stubborn that makes me want to find a time machine and skip the teenage years entirely.

I don’t think I can handle what I know is coming. Not without a lot of wine, anyway.

Today is a professional development day at her school, which means Macy is with me at work. I don’t have anyone else to watch her, but thankfully, I’m a social worker at a private military clinic here in town. I can set my own hours and also bring her to work with me if needed. Today should be a quieter day and give me time to work with Macy on her homework between clients, but she’s not having it. Apparently homework on a non-school day is sacrilege, and she’s about to tell the devil himself all about the sins I’m committing, so he’ll send me straight to hell.

Too dramatic? Maybe, but right now, I don’t care.

“Yes, Mommy,” she mutters, still sounding defiant as she crosses her arms over her chest. “But it’s a day off. Why do I have to do work?”

“Because your teacher assigned you homework,” I answer patiently. “The sooner you finish it, the sooner you can do what you want.”

“Why couldn’t Parker come?” she pouts. Parker is her friend, a little boy in her class I watch when his mother needs a break. Lately, that’s been more often than not. Not that Parker is a bother. He’s a very sweet boy and absolutely no trouble at all.

“Because I’m only allowed to bring one person to work with me,” I answer as I grab her coloring book and crayons out of my desk drawer. “How about you color for a bit and we’ll try this again later?” I glance at my computer screen for the time. “I need to check on a client, okay?”

Macy’s eyes light up when she sees the coloring book. “Okay,” she says excitedly, all evidence of a tantrum gone as she takes them and immediately dives in.

“I’m just down the hall in the same room as before if you need me,” I tell her, though she completely ignores me as she colors. I roll my eyes and head out of my office.

Macy is the spitting image of me, right down to the green eyes and wide smile, but she has her father’s blonde hair and personality to a T. Even at almost six, she knows what she wants, and she reaches for it with both hands.

A pang hits me, but I push it aside. Thinking of Macy’s father never ends well, so it’s best to forget about it right now. I need to focus on the client I’m meeting.

I grab his chart and quickly review it. Being a social worker for Vets being thrust into civilian life is both rewarding and challenging. It’s nothing I ever thought I could do. Especially not after everything that happened.

No, no, I need to stop thinking about it and focus on helping my new client. He needs my entire attention, and everything else can wait.

I head down the hall to the waiting room door and open it, smile in place. “Mr. Owens?” I ask softly, as I look out into the mostly empty waiting room.

Slowly he looks up at me, and then stands, revealing how large he is. I put him at six-six with broad shoulders and chest, thick arms covered in tattoos, and long legs that end in a pair of biker boots. His face has a thick beard with silvery colored eyes that are completely void of any emotion. I know immediately that this is the last place he wants to be, but he doesn’t strike me as the dangerous type. Still, I’ll be careful.

“You’re the social worker?” he asks, voice dark and rumbling. He sounds more like a lion than a man, actually.

“I am,” I say, holding out my hand to him. “I’m Quinn Holt. Just follow me and we’ll get you sorted as quickly as we can.” Turning, I can feel him following me the entire way. For a big man, he walks quietly. When we reach the room I like to use, I open the door and step inside. One of the first things I learned with Vets was they don’t like others at their backs if they can help it, so I rarely ever ask them to go ahead of me into a room. “Please, have a seat,” I say as I step towards the two couches facing each other. “Did you want anything to drink?”

My nerves are bouncing in my stomach. I’m not naturally a social person, and actually horribly shy. But I have to be talkative for my job, so I force myself to take a deep breath and focus on my work, and pray I don’t make a fool of myself.

“No, thank you,” he says as he stiffly sits on the couch. “Look, Ms. Holt, I know you’re here to help me, but I don’t see how you’re going to.”

I don’t take offense at his words. I’ve heard them often, and sometimes more rudely put. I calmly set his file aside and look at him. “Mr. Owens—”

“Just Mack or Crypt is fine,” he interrupts.

“Which do you prefer?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Everyone’s always called me Crypt, but that was a nickname given to me by my team. Almost not sure if I should use it anymore, being a civilian now,” he says bitterly.

“I suppose for jobs and such you might need to use your legal name, but for this, I can call you Crypt if it would make you feel more comfortable. Up to you. Or I can just call you Sir,” I quip with a small smile. Then internally wince. Shit, that was a stupid thing to say.

Instead of getting annoyed, his lips twitch as he says, “Sorry, Ms. Holt, but you saying that doesn’t have the same effect as my commanding officer. Just call me Crypt. That will make things a lot easier.”

I nod, relaxing. “Okay, then we’ll do that. And call me Quinn. I don’t like the Ms. title, anyway. Alright, well, let’s get down to business and see what we can do. My job, Crypt, is to help you out in any way I can to help you get settled into civilian life as easily as possible.” He snorts. “Yeah, I know, stupid words, but they tell me I have to say them,” I chuckle softly. I pause. “Can I just level with you?”

“Prefer it.”

I nod and take a deep breath. I just hope he won’t get pissed at what I say. “This isn’t going to be easy, and you will struggle. You’re going to be pissed, and at some point you’ll probably want to say to hell with it and go off to be a hermit in the woods, but I want you to know that I will not pull the wool over your eyes. If you ask me a question, I’ll be as straight with you as I can, and I’m going to work with you to make sure that you’re not left floundering on your own.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You a Vet?” he finally asks.

“No, but my husband was,” I say quietly. “He, uh, he passed away five years ago.”

He nods. “Active duty?” I nod. There is so much more to it than that, but I don’t discuss it. Finally he says, “The shrinks tell me I have PTSD, that I’ll struggle to cope with daily life, and want to drug me up. Mellow me out. I’m not doing that shit.”

I nod. “I wouldn’t want to either. You have PTSD, but from what I’ve seen in your file, it’s not severe. You’re not experiencing recurring nightmares, and other than some loud noises bothering you, you’re doing better than others who’ve done as many tours as you. Many who come to see me are jumpy, or already drugged out of their minds to cope. I can do some of the heavy lifting, finding you a place to stay, a job, things like that, but it’s up to you to continue on that path,” I swallow hard and force the next words out of my mouth. “Or be another statistic. Become homeless, an alcoholic, or drug addict whose story ends with suicide.”

He doesn’t react to my words. Most, when they hear them, flinch or vow that it will never happen to them. Crypt just looks at me, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling. Finally, he says, “What do you need me to do?”

I grab his file and open it, looking down at the notes I made on the first page. “You’ve only been officially discharged for a week, and you’ve been staying in the military apartments just off base, correct?”

“Yes. Need to be out by the end of next week.”

“Do you have any leads on any apartments or places to stay?”

“Most of the places I’ve looked at around town either want proof of a job or only rent to families.” His tone is even, but I can sense the disgust underneath. The bitterness.

“Do you have any savings?”

“Saved all my money and have a nice nest egg. I can be comfortable for a year or two. Thought about buying a house, but seems kind of pointless if I can’t find a job that will keep me in this area.”

“And you want to stay here, correct?”

“Only place I know.”

“Your military record says that you were great at surveillance and gathering information. Have you thought about working with the police?”

He shrugs. “I have little patience for dealing with people doing stupid shit and having to arrest them. I might consider it if I can’t find anything else, but it’s not my first choice.”

I nod. “Alright. What about security?” I think back to the new company that my colleague mentioned to us all in an email earlier today. Crypt might just be perfect for that kind of work, but I’ll have to make some calls if he is interested.

His head tilts forward slightly at that, and I know he’s interested. “Hadn’t thought of that option,” he finally replies.

“I may have an option that could work for you if that is something you’d be interested in pursuing. I can’t promise anything, but it might be a good first step. And I can also start helping to find you an apartment. We keep a list of a few places for situations like yours. Most of them are only one-bedroom apartments, but it would be a start for you until you find your own place.”

Slowly, he nods at me. “Alright. What do you need from me?”

“I need you to list your skills and then we’ll work on getting your resume together. Once that’s done, I’ll reach out to the company I have in mind and see if we can set up an interview for you. They specifically asked for Vets, and have clarified that they will give everyone qualified a chance. Based on your skills in the Forces, I think you’d be great at it.” I give him a soft, warm smile.

He cocks his head slightly. “You really care, huh?”

I blink at him, confused. “Ah, you make that sound like a strange thing,” I reply hesitantly.

“It is,” is his blunt reply. “Been to see so many people in the last week, and I’m just a number to them. Nothing more. Get me in and out as fast as they can, or write me a prescription so I’m mellow and not much trouble. You, you’re talking about already having a place to live, a job, and helping me to do up my resume so that this company will consider me. Most would tell me to do it myself, give me the name of the company, and send me on my way. Why don’t you?”

I’m not really sure how to answer that question. I take a second, because I have a feeling that my answer is going to be important. “I do it because I care,” I tell him honestly. “My husband was in the service, and I saw the toll it can take on men and women who are trying to make something of themselves outside of the military. Some have support, some have their plans all mapped out. The majority don’t. Either they’re dishonourably discharged, medically discharged, or they just can’t do it anymore. Those are the ones I want to help, and when I was trying to decide on a career, I gravitated to this area of social work. If I can help one person, keep them from washing out into the streets, or worse, into a grave, then I count it as a job well done. I can’t help everyone, but those I can, like you, get everything I have to offer.

“If that means helping you find a place to stay, then I’ll do that. If it’s finding someone for you to talk to, I’ll do that too. A job, medicine, a support system, I can show it all to you. The choice to accept that help is yours, though. You have to be the one to accept my help, and if you don’t want it, and want to navigate it all on your own, then I’ll happily step back and let you. But I’ll also still be here if you change your mind.”

I watch him, biting my lip as I finally stop talking. Crap. I hadn’t meant to say that much, and now my face is heating in embarrassment.

Instead of chastising me, or making fun of me, he just nods. “That’s why I’ll let you help me. If you were a bitch that only wanted to get me out of here, I’d probably already be out the door, trying to figure out this shit on my own. So, I’ll take the help in getting my resume in order, and then if you can help me get in touch with the security company, I’d appreciate it.”

I let my lips widen into a full smile. “That works for me.”

For the next hour, we work together and I type up his resume. After getting his final approval, I head to my office to call the number Lena gave me. She sent me an email as well, but I prefer to talk to someone about something like this. Hopefully, I’ll end the call with an interview for Crypt.

I check on Macy and see she’s happily coloring away, and then I make the call. I wait anxiously as it rings, my nerves jumping. Finally, someone answers. “Devil’s Security,” the deep masculine voice on the other end says briskly.

“Good morning,” I say in what I hope is a calm tone. “My name is Quinn Holt and I’m a social worker at the VA clinic. I was given your business name from Lena Breck at the VA hospital as someone who was interested in interviewing Vets for potential positions. Is this still the case?”

“Damn, that was fast,” he mutters. “And yes, we are. Who have you got for me? I have to tell you, I thought it would be longer before we’d get a call.”

“Oh, ah, well, I guess it just worked out,” I say awkwardly. “Could I send you over his resume and then you can contact him at your convenience?”

He rattles off an email address and then adds, “Send it along to that email now and I’ll have a look at it while you’re on the phone. If I think he’s what we’re looking for, I can interview him this afternoon if he’s available.”

My mouth drops open in shock, and I’m glad he can’t see me. I quickly get myself back under control and email it over to him. “He’s former Special Forces,” I tell him as I hear him clicking away. “He specialized in intelligence gathering and has experience working with a larger team, if that helps.” Shit, I really need to stop talking. It’s not like he can’t read the damn thing himself.

He hums a bit, and I swallow softly as the sound vibrates through the phone. I have no idea why that noise affects me the way it does, but it skates along my nerves, and makes me hyper aware of the man on the other end of the line. I briefly wonder what he looks like before he pulls me out of my thoughts by saying, “I’d like to interview him. He’s got some damn good skills that I could use. How long has he been out?”

“A week.”

“Damn, that was fast. Glad that he got into you, then.”

“I work at a private clinic instead of the hospital, so the clients they send here aren’t in need of medical care and I can help them quicker.”

“Sounds like he landed in the right place. Let him know to stop by today before four and I’ll talk to him. Won’t promise anything, but his skills sound pretty damn great.”

“Thank you very much, Mr.…”

He chuckles, and the sound makes my belly flip in response. It’s soft and smooth, like melted chocolate. “Just Shadow, Ms. Holt. We’re not big on formality around here.”

Huh, that’s an odd name, but I guess with a client with a name like Crypt, I shouldn’t be too surprised. “Alright, well, thank you very much, Shadow. I’ll let him know, and please let me know if you have any questions or problems.”

“Will do, Ms. Holt.” Then he gives me the address and hangs up. I do a quick fist pump, dash past a confused Macy, and hurry to tell my client the good news.